Redemption Roads
by tielan
Summary: There's a Hellmouth over New York, and the world's gone mad. It's up to Faith and the Slayers of New York to fix the problem...with some unexpected help. But redemption can't be granted, it can only be earned. [FaithWes pairing]


**Notes: **This was written as an assignment for a rare ship swap ficathon. The recip was one of my friends, and while she didn't ask for the Avengers crossover, we met in Avengers fandom. And, hey, hellmouth over New York, end of the world, and a group of women uniquely placed to help close it? Yeah, I went there. Hope you enjoy!

**Redemption Roads**

Faith felt the double-buzz that signalled an incoming call against her hip. She glanced at the display and took it.

"Worst timing, Wes. Or best. We were just about to head under."

"Complain of the timing to the Powers," came the dry reply. "Our seer had a vision."

"Great. Two weeks into a planetary invasion and the Powers finally decide to grant us guidance?" Faith muttered. Over by the entrance to the sewers, heads turned towards her, the low-voiced conversations petering out as others realised who was calling her.

"You assume the Powers have a humanocentric view of the universe, Faith."

"Yeah, yeah, I think we've already established just how much the Powers care about humanity." Faith toed at a darker clump of something on the alley pavement and grimaced as it began to give off a distinctly rancid smell. She moved quickly away from it. "Spare me the speech and dish the dirt."

A decade ago, he would have chided her for cutting through 'important information.' A decade ago, they'd been very different people. "A man will be attacked by Chitauri coming down East 135th. Lena says you need to bring him back because he's the spear-point to retribution."

"'_The spear-point to retribution'_? God, who phrases these messages anyway?"

"Well, given the source, perhaps God Himself?"

"Ha-ha."

"I'm just the messenger. So, you'll go?"

"Do I get a choice? Rhetorical question, Wes, don't answer it." Faith glanced back at the eight people waiting in the shadows. "I'll divert, but the others will stay. This nest needs cleaning out and if we don't do it now, we might not get back to it."

"Samica's group is on East 124th – general patrol. I'll call her in to back you up." His voice softened. "I'll see you when you get back, Faith."

As she tucked the phone away and went to join the others on this hunt, Faith reflected that he never told her to be careful, never told her to stay safe. She appreciated that.

They both knew that 'safe' was an illusion, anyway.

"Change in plans?"

Faith looked over at Angela, at the other woman's eager expression, at the curious and interested expressions of the others – two more Slayers, five scoobies. "Not for you. You guys will stay on the nest, clean it out. It's Slaying 101, you're more than capable of it. I have to head out – got something else to do."

"Answering the call of the Powers That Be?" Angela inquired sweetly.

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"And why is it so important that you, specifically, answer this call?"

The young woman had only arrived in New York a week ago, gravitating towards the new Hellmouth that had appeared in the sky seventeen days ago. Like many other Slayers, she'd been drawn to the prospect of a rousing fight against the demons and forces of darkness that threatned the world once again. Like many other Slayers coming to New York she'd checked in with Faith and agreed to join in with the operations Faith and Wes already had in place.

Unlike most other Slayers, Angela was resentful of Faith's experience, longevity, and familiarity with New York City, and would say red when Faith said blue as often as was possible.

Wes thought it was a combination of personality politics and ambition. Frankly, Faith couldn't give a fuck what it was – it was annoying and inconvenient and precisely why she hated being the leader of anything.

Life had been a lot simpler when it had just been her and Wes.

_Yeah, and life was a lot simpler back in jail, but you wouldn't want to go back in, would you?_

Faith looked Angela in the eye. "You want to have a queen bee slapdown out here, while there's work to be done? We're not here to bitch about who gets which assignment. And," she added when Angela opened her mouth to argue, "I know New York and Samica's gang; you don't. So tonight, you, Li, and Ash are gonna stamp the vamps like the plan called for; and I'm gonna go and see the Chitauri about a man."

Faith walked away without waiting to hear Angela's response.

o-O-o

This close to the hospital, the streets were busy.

"Another protest," Samica said softly from the rooftop they'd picked as a vantage point. Standing just across from the primary school, the apartment block gave them a clear view of the people making their way along Fifth Avenue by foot and by car. "Down at Marcus Garvey Park just before sunset. This time, they sent the Chitauri in."

Faith grimaced. The Chitauri had no regard for human life; they killed and slaughtered with as much thought as a human gave to squashing a cockroach. Still, they were better than the human troops that occasionally took over the job of keeping the civilian populace down in the city – the 'death squads' of men and women who'd sold their souls to the Chitauri in exchange for their lives.

The Chitauri were hated; the death squads were loathed.

"Crackdown time?"

"Something's changed," Samica murmured. "You got the last PSA?"

"It was hard to miss." The human leader of the Chitauri – 'Loki Laufeyson' as he named himself – had stood with his human lieutenants flanking him as he told the Earth that they were entering a new phase of Earth's subjugation, and any attempts at rebellion would be immediately and ruthlessly stamped out. _There is no need for bloodshed, no need to fight. Do not most of your lives continue as they have always been? It is only when you fight for this illusory freedom that your people die. Accept your fate – accept my rule – and I will be merciful and kind. Rebel, and you will feel the full extent of my wrath. _"Looks like protesting is no longer allowed."

"No more details on your vision-man?"

"Not my vision, not my man, and no." Lena had managed to tease a few further details from her vision, which Wes passed on to Faith, but she'd also been nervous about what she'd seen, saying the details were sketchy.

_This had better not be all for nothing—_

But Samica had lifted her head. "Wait—"

Screams sounded from the direction of the river, even as Faith's phone rang – one of the sentries they'd posted down by the river to keep an eye out.

"Chitauri on skimmers coming up 135th – four chasing two humans, also flyi—No, just one human. Male. The female is Loki's redhead."

Faith exchanged a surprised look with Samica. The redhead was one of Loki's human lieutenants – if she was involved in this...

"Guess we've got our man." Faith squinted into the night, watching the floating shadows grow steadily closer. She pulled her knife from the sheath inside her jacket, holding it out and ready. "Target number four as he hits the intersection."

"Gotcha," Samica grinned, her teeth gleaming white over the barrel of the semi-automatic they'd appropriated from one of the armouries of New York's Finest. Not exactly a Slayer's traditional weapon, but then, these weren't a Slayer's traditional enemies. "Go get 'em, girl!"

The man's skimmer soared past them, dipping and ducking to avoid the woman on his tail. _One Chitauri, two Chitauri, three Chitauri..._

She sprinted for the ledge, trusting Samica's aim, trusting her own instincts, trusting Lena's visions...and leaped.

_Four._

Faith hated falling. She'd never been fond of it before the fight with Buffy where the other girl had stabbed her and thrown her off a roof, and the dozen years between then and now had done nothing to improve her opinion of the sensation.

But she kept her head as she fell, and kept her feet when she landed exactly where she'd planned – on the tail of the last Chitauri skimmer.

Already injured by Samica's fire, the Chitauri didn't get to keep his head – Faith took it in one fluid swipe of hard steel. She shouldered the body away from the controls, trying to work out the skimmer's control as it veered down towards the ground, losing height.

_Shit, shit, shit, fuck..._

She yanked the craft up just before it top-swiped an ambulance, saw people yelling at her – cheers and curses alike. _Too fucking close. And I'm falling too far behind... How the hell do you kick the turbo on this thing?_ It took her a moment, but when she did, she kicked the Chitauri corpse off the back of the skimmer and put on speed to catch up with the others.

They were heading for the Hudson – would be there in under a minute if they kept going. Squinting through the wind, Faith saw the lead guy – the man from Lena's vision – swerve into St Nicholas' Park, dropping his skimmer in behind the trees to limit their sightlines of him.

His instincts were good; the redhead let loose a burst of fire that tore through the air where he'd been a moment before. Her craft swerved to follow him, and the others followed her.

As the craft ahead of her turned, Faith shot at them – she figured that was what this button did. She sure hoped it wasn't the self-destru—

Two of the Chitauri craft ahead of her exploded. That left one and the woman, and the Chitauri was already dropping back—

Faith didn't let herself think. She was better at action, anyway. She braked as the Chitauri dropped back, let her body take the forward motion over the dashboard of her skimmer – and her knife took him in the back of the neck.

She shoved him away to fall somewhere in the park.

Four down; one to—

_Fuck._

The redhead's skimmer spun up, out of nowhere, its weapons already blazing.

Faith leaped. She had no choice – it was leap and trust to luck, or cling to the skimmer and die. Behind her, fire blossomed and the ground promised pain, even for a Slayer...

_This is gonna—_

It didn't hurt as much as she'd expected. And was the sky _moving_—?

Above her, the guy from Lena's vision glanced back at her and then behind the craft, where a fireball was blooming – the redhead's skimmer.

She sat up, her eyes tracking the second fireball and picking out a slim, black-clad figure hanging by a tree limb before the skimmer turned a sharp corner and the woman was lost from view.

Faith climbed slowly to her feet as they soared out over the Hudson River. "That's some flying."

"You're not so bad at it yourself. Do you need a lift? I can drop you off." The question sounded easy, but she caught the casual sideways gaze and knew she was being watched by someone who was anything _but_.

"Actually," she said, "I was looking for you."

"Guess you found me," came the reply as they flew low over the water. "What's next?"

"The Powers That Be have a message for you."

He snorted, disbelieving. "The Powers That Be?"

And this was the part that would kick. It had kicked Faith hard enough when she heard it, and her version had been delivered years ago.

"They say you have red in your ledger," she told him quietly, "and this is your chance to balance it out."

He turned to look at her, his face pale and stiff and stunned. And then he seemed to shake himself awake. "Okay," he said and there was none of the casual ease of before. "You have my attention now."

o-O-o

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce listened to Clint Barton's story from beginning to end without comment. There were interruptions and questions enough from the senior Slayers and Scoobies who'd assembled to hear from this guy whom the Powers That Be had marked as important.

Barton seemed a fairly ordinary soldier on the surface of things; his gear and bearing were military, his eyes took note of the exits and the possible weapons, and he looked at the Slayers and Scoobies as a man accustomed to judging offensive capabilities in people – and making no judgements by gender.

His story rang true enough, but Wesley noted that parts of it were missing or glossed over. And something about what Barton was talking about sounded familiar, although he couldn't put his finger on exactly what. He didn't ask for elaboration, although he had questions of his own – those weren't his primary concern at this moment.

"So this Loki guy," Joey – one of the Scoobie unit leaders – began, "he's the original Norse god?"

"Or the template for the original Norse god was taken from him," Barton shrugged. "This stuff, this is out of my league. I don't debate the theology or the origins or the whys and wherefores, I'm just a soldier. I go where I'm ordered; do as I'm told."

Somehow Wesley doubted that – the man might have been trained as a soldier, but if he was given orders, they would be broad ones – left open for Barton to interpret according to his own judgement. And that, to Wesley, said not _soldier_, but _spy_.

The question Wesley had was who the man was spying _for_. Especially now.

"You're the focus of a vision," Faith pointed out from the arm of Wesley's sofa chair – a familiar perch, as well as a protective one. Wes didn't argue with either the familiarity or the protectiveness; they'd come to an agreement about acceptable displays in public. "Which makes you the opposite of 'just' anything. The bit I don't get is why the Powers brought you to us."

"The head of the spear breaks off in the wound," said Lena softly, her arms curled around her knees in the window seat, her gaze fixed on Barton. "Poisoning the flesh from the inside out."

Angela rolled her eyes from the corner, her arms folded over her chest. "Lena, what are you going on about?"

Lena Malkani – tech support by training and inclination, seer by the grace of the Powers That Be – didn't look away from Barton, who'd frozen where he sat. "You were the spear-point, and now you're the compass. If we follow your arrow, you'll show us the way."

"And that's not at all cryptic," Faith muttered.

Wes nudged her thigh with his shoulder in warning, felt her fingernails graze his neck just inside his collar in reply.

"Maybe we've been asking this the wrong way around," he said, glad that the lights were low and his flush wasn't noticeable "Maybe the question is not why you were brought here to us, Barton, but why we were brought to your notice - what is it that we can do for you? You've talked about how this war began – about Loki and Thor, and how the Tesseract opened the door to an alien world, and you've mentioned this organisation – S.H.I.E.L.D. But you haven't said why you stole a skimmer this evening – and I'm presuming that it wasn't to joyride – nor why you merited pursuit from four Chitauri and one of Loki's lieutenants."

The man wasn't accustomed to sharing his secrets, that much was obvious.

But he knew when he was cornered, and when he had nowhere else to turn.

"There's a prisoner transport coming in from the midwest – it should arrive shortly after dawn," Barton said at last. "There's a woman on it – Lieutenant Maria Hill. Loki's bringing her in for interrogation, and probably to be turned – heartwashed – by the Tesseract."

"Your girlfriend?" Faith asked, her insolence quite deliberate.

Barton smiled. "Hardly. Hill was second-in-command to the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Given that Fury hasn't been seen or heard from in two weeks, I'm guessing he's probably dead – which makes her the highest-ranking person in S.H.I.E.L.D – one of the few organisations in existence that might have the ability to fight back against Loki and his Chitauri invasion force."

Wes' brows rose. "I take it she knows a great deal about S.H.I.E.L.D's capabilities."

Barton shrugged. "Might just as well say that water is wet. Maria knows pretty much everything that there is to know about S.H.I.E.L.D – or if she doesn't, she knows how to lay hands on someone who does. And she was captured last night trying to get into a S.H.I.E.L.D storage facility out in Colorado."

"What's in the storage facility?"

"Need to know," Barton said. "And I didn't. But she did, and she went for it. Which means that Loki not only has Hill in hand, but also whatever she went to get."

"And you were going to go after them alone?" Faith sounded somewhere between impressed and appalled.

"I had a skimmer." Barton almost smiled. "I guess I got something a little more substantial now."

o-O-o

Faith was in bed long before Wes got there. He undressed and climbed in between the sheets without turning on the light, intending to leave her sleeping.

She rolled over as he climbed in, fitting her naked body up against his and igniting a deep warmth in Wes' chest. It wasn't an invitation for sex – Faith was much more direct when she wanted sex – just habit. "Lena and Joey?"

"They're watching him while doing their research," Wes murmured into her hair. And watching each other, too, in the unsubtle way of the young.

There were moments when he felt like asking Giles if this was how the man had felt, working with Buffy and he friends in Sunnydale. He never did, though, not when they called to talk about Watcher matters, not when they advised each other on the finer points of dealing with the Slayers and their Scoobies, not when they were requesting translations or scrolls or books.

In some things, Giles was surprisingly old-fashioned. 'Ripper' had crossed many lines in his career as a Watcher, but not that one.

While Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had crossed them all – including the one forbidding a Watcher to have sexual relations with the Slayer in his or her care.

Then again, Faith had a way of breaking rules.

"Do you think he can be trusted?"

"Isn't it a bit late to be asking that after everything's been discussed?" Wes smiled as she poked him in the belly. "Yes, I think he can be trusted – as far as it goes."

"Do I wanna know how far it goes?"

"As far as he's told us."

He realised it was the wrong thing to say when she raised her head. In the darkness, she couldn't see him, but he could feel her gaze on him. "He's holding out on us?"

"He's not telling us everything about the situation. But he's serious about getting hold of this Maria Hill person." There was no mistaking the urgency in the man – not when it came to that.

"Yeah, I got that, too." Faith relaxed a little. "It's all pretty crazy if you ask me – aliens, mind-control..."

"Says the vampire slayer."

"Yeah, but that's _normal_."

"For us perhaps."

"'S the only measure we got," she mumbled, snuggling in closer. "No more talk."

Wes let her sleep without interruption from his thoughts, stroking a hand down her back as her breathing evened out.

His Slayer could fall asleep anywhere, but she didn't fall asleep with anyone. Just with him. And if there were moments when this seemed incomprehensible to Wes, well, aliens and vampires weren't the only far-fetched things in Wes' life.

Her fingers relaxed by slow degrees, resting over the scars she'd once carved into his flesh.

o-O-o

Morning felt good on her skin. It always did.

Faith turned her face to the sun and allowed herself a moment, leaving Barton, Ash, Shule, and Tobey to watch for the incoming transport, due in twenty minutes.

She'd never been one for second-guessing - _want, take, have_ didn't leave much room for deep philosophy – but she had major reservations about this morning's 'mission'.

Having spent a large portion of her life avoiding the notice of the authorities, Faith disliked anything that brought her to the notice of anyone official. Coming to the attention of the Chitauri invasion force could be fatal to the Slayers as a whole. Their existence on the fringes of organised society had been an advantage so far – Loki couldn't destroy resistance where there was none recorded. And as yet, nobody that he'd turned knew anything more about them than rumours.

But the Slayers in DC had gotten in the way of the Chitauri while working with the army to get the President and Vice President away – a Slayer with a father in the Pentagon and an uncle in the Army had been a useful resource.

Wes had come back from DC grim and white-lipped, and that night Faith asked no questions, just let him work out his anguish and anger in bed that night.

It was no hardship. She hadn't even had bruises after.

_You're closer to it all,_ Buffy had said, mere hours after DC went down. _Active resistance or passive?_

_Passive,_ Faith had told the other girl. _We're making a target of all of us._

_You've got people looking at solutions._

_Well, yeah. We need to get that Hellmouth closed._

But Faith didn't want high-profile. Ten years ago, high-profile would never have even been possible.

The world had changed a lot in ten years.

Wes had pointed out that the only centralised record of the Slayers had been with the Watchers' Council, which had been destroyed somewhat before it became _de rigeur_ to keep everything on the internet. Yeah, there were sites with theories and conspiracies and God knew what, but they were mostly wrong. And the ones that were right were quickly dealt with.

"Reservations?" Barton asked, coming to stand beside her.

"Let's just say when I pick up guys, the morning after doesn't usually involve a mission unless it also involves the word 'g-spot'."

Barton's expression glittered. "Ah, but the Powers That Be sent me to you. It's destiny. Possibly even fate."

"I've had about as much destiny as I care to handle," Faith told him. "But I'm making an exception this once." She surveyed the river below and the clear skies over New Jersey and checked her watch. "They're late."

"No, they're not." He glanced out across the river. "That's them now."

Faith couldn't see anything – maybe it was the haze over the Hudson? She squinted. Still nope. Oh, wait, was that a smudge...?

"Tobey!"

Tobey got the binoculars up. "Yep, that's a transport, all right. Although how you can see that, I have no idea. It's a speck in the glasses – if that!"

"I got good eyesight." He glanced at Faith. "Ready to go?"

Faith called Wes. "Time to get the party on the bus, Wes."

"We're starting out now," he told her, and a moment later there was the roar of engines in the background. "I'll be on standby if it's needed."

"See you back at base," she answered.

When she hung up, Barton had an odd expression on his face. "What?"

He shook his head and climbed up on the skimmer, unslinging his bow from over his shoulder and giving it a shake out.

"Antiquated equipment," Tobey said as he crouched back down by the ledge and his sniper setup.

"Watch it," Shule warned him, giving him a nudge with her knee as she headed for the skimmer. "He's not the only one around here who prefers doing some things the old way."

"And here I thought you liked it on top." Tobey smirked, then yelped as Ash smacked him on the back of the head.

"Don't be dirty!"

Tobey pouted; Faith rolled her eyes and felt _old_.

Then again, she supposed, she _was_ old – for a Slayer. By all rights, she should never have made it to twenty, let alone thirty. And yet here she was – not only thirty, but in a steady sexual relationship with her Watcher, and the second most-senior Slayer on the planet.

Well, she'd always been the second most-senior Slayer on the planet; it just hadn't meant anything back then.

"Ah, kids these days," Barton quipped as Faith climbed onto the tail of the Chitauri skimmer beside him. Shule was the pilot – the only one of Faith's crew who had any avionics training, and Ash would be getting off with Faith down at the helipad – a Slayer to watch Faith's back and deal with any secondary issues.

The transport was making its way across the Hudson now – old-fashioned, blocky, with two sets of blades, and an escort of two Chitauri skimmers.

Down below, on 12th Avenue, cars trundled along in their morning routine, people on their way to work. In some ways, the occupation of Earth had changed little, prompting various wags to quip about 'welcoming the new alien overlords'. In others...

Four human guards climbed out first, pushing back the doors fully for the Chitauri to make their way out. Six footsoldiers, their armoured bodies gleaming like new silver in the dawn light. There was a pause before the prisoner climbed out – a dark-haired woman, tall and slim, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Right behind her came another man – clad in a blue outfit that left nothing to the imagination, and bearing a circular shield on his back, the white star gleaming amidst the blue and red concentric rings.

"Is that—?"

"Captain America," Tobey confirmed, watching through the binoculars. "Lieutenant Number Two."

"Whoa," Shule said, looking over at Barton as she started up the skimmer. "You got the big guns. Who the fuck _are_ you people?"

Barton didn't answer that question; he had an arrow already nocked to his bow as the skimmer rose and swooped down to the helipad.

Two more footsoldiers had followed the prisoner's exit, and another four human guards. Loki was taking no chances with this Maria Hill.

Why she merited such attention became clear a moment later. Having stepped out of the transport, she was refusing to be dragged away, evading the scarlet-gloved hand of Captain America as he tried to take her by the elbow. Her resistance was drawing attention from her escort.

_Distracting her guards, _Faith realised, and wondered how the other woman knew.

Then Barton let loose an arrow at the Chitauri escort hovering over the Hudson. A split second later the skimmer fired and the escorts were fireballs.

_Now_ the guards were looking for the threat.

"Evasive manoeuvres," Barton yelled, even as he fired off another arrow.

But Shule had already risen high, shooting the skimmer out into the middle of the Hudson and circling around the debris of the far escort, using it as a smokescreen. The guards followed her, firing shots – and weren't paying attention to the skyline – or the street.

Jerked this way and that, holding hard to the sides of the skimmer so she wouldn't get thrown out, Faith glimpsed the yellow bus through the trees. It stopped at the lights just in front of the heliport – as per the plan – and opened its doors.

She couldn't see Wes from here, but she could imagine him warning the Slayers and Scoobies as they scrambled out, gritting his teeth against the knowledge that he was better positioned to hang back and act as a Watcher should.

"Drop us off," she told Shule, who swooped in to the edge of the pier where the guards had just realised their mistake and were turning away from the river to face the new threat.

Faith dived off the skimmer, tucking her head under in a roll that brought her up with her hand under her jacket. Her knife went into the throat of the merc, and he died choking. His companion was already swinging for her, and she swung him aside and behind, leaving him for Ash to deal with.

Her focus was on the prisoner – and the man who was manhandling her off the helipad towards the waiting car.

All things considered, the shield made a pretty good target.

She flung the knife. Somehow he felt it coming and ducked – Slayer-level instincts. Then he turned, dragging Lieutenant Hill in front of him as a human shield. Her bound hands swung wide with the momentum – then slammed back, jamming her elbow into his gut before springing forwards and rolling out of the way.

Faith got in the way of Captain America, trusting to Ash and the others to get Hill out and away to Barton on the skimmer.

He recovered fast – fast enough to glimpse her coming and to block her first punch before following it with one of his own.

Faith dodged, and felt the heat of the knuckles as they passed by her cheek.

_Super-soldier. Right._

She upped her game – no playing, no pissing around. Out of all the Slayers, she was best-equipped to deal with this; she was the oldest – and she'd killed before.

She'd kill again if she had to.

He might have been a hero once, but there was only madness in the blue eyes now. And he wasn't pulling his punches – she staggered back when he clipped her on the shoulder, and only just managed to break his grip when he caught her arm as she tried to jab at his eyes.

When she broke free, her shoulder ached, but she ignored it, turning aside a series of punches, and spinning on one foot to use his forward momentum to shove him away, up against the wire fence.

A glance around showed most of the guards dealt with – mostly through team-work. The prisoner – _former_ prisoner – seemed to be ransacking the transport, calling something up at Barton as Shule hovered the Chitauri craft in the air.

When Faith looked back, Captain America had unhooked the shield from his shoulder and was circling, watching her with those eerie blue eyes.

"Faith, they're bringing in reinforcements! We need to get out of here!"

She barely registered the cry. The first swing of the shield nearly took her out, and the second caught her on the hip. It stung like sweet fuck. An explicit curse escaped her lips. Then she narrowly avoided bashing her knuckles on it when trying to return the blow.

_Keep this up, and you'll lose._

He was dangerous enough without the shield; with it as defence and weapon, he was deadly.

"Get the shield and use it against him!"

She didn't recognise the voice; it didn't matter. She heard the advice: _change the game._

When he came at her again, she feinted, pulling her swing and eeling sideways. Her heel in his knee unbalanced him – he might be a super-soldier, but he was also a man and his centre of gravity was higher, concentrated in his belly and chest.

A shove took him over, and although he turned to take her down, she used the momentum to get her hands on the rim of the shield and _yank_.

It was heavier than she expected as it came off his arm, which meant her aim was a little wild as she swung it back at him as he landed. The front edge slapped him across the face and the shield made a soft, reverberating sound, although she couldn't feel it vibrating.

He went down like he'd been poleaxed.

Faith leaned against the shield, panting.

"Good work," said a voice to the side – Maria Hill strode up, surveying the scene. "He's out like a light."

"He's not dead?"

"When he wakes, he'll wish he was, but no." Hill took the shield off Faith's unresisting arm and hefted it on her own before striding off in the direction of the hovering skimmer where Barton was waiting. "Pick him up and let's get moving."

Faith frowned at the imperious order, but if the Chitauri had reinforcements coming, there wasn't time to argue.

She shouldered the guy – he was heavy, but not so much she couldn't carry him – and jogged for the skimmer.

o-O-o

Wes' first impression of Maria Hill was the way she walked.

She strode into the room like she owned it, carrying a suitcase-like box which she set on the back of the sofa, before she planted her feet.

She looked like a commander surveying her troops – and gave orders like one, too.

"Barton, get him secure," she said, indicating the unconscious man slung over Faith's shoulders. Faith had called in the update on the way home, sounding a little peeved to Wes' ears. Even now, she made a sour face as she carried her burden over to the corner. But Barton put down the suitcase he was carrying – the same make and style as Hill's weapon, but smaller – and did what she ordered without comment. Wes noted the trust – or the training.

Hill turned to him a moment later. "Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, I presume? Thanks for the rescue."

"Ms. Hill, I presume." He didn't offer his hand; she wasn't offering hers. "You'll have to thank Barton; he brought you to our attention."

"Yes, and I'm curious what brought _him_ to _your_ attention."

The looks she shot Barton had a touch of malice about it. Friendly, Wes surmised from the wide-eyed innocent look Barton gave her as he waited for Faith to fit the prisoner – Captain America, Loki's lieutenant – into the old restraining chair that was bolted to the wall. "The Powers That Be sent them a vision," Barton offered as he began to help Faith with the straps.

Wes expected her to scoff – that was what most people did. But her gaze sharpened, steel-blue in the smudged hollows of her face. "You have a seer? Or did you consult the Oracles?"

"Whoa," Faith stood, strapping forgotten. "You know about the visions?"

Barton had similarly stopped, crouching by the prisoner's feet. "Oracles? Maria—"

And a connection that had been nagging at Wes suddenly came clear. "What do you know about the Demon Research Initiative, Ms. Hill?"

Heads turned and conversations ceased. Over in the window seat, Lena's book dropped out of her hands with a thump – a valuable text on unusual demonology that should have been treated better. "S.H.I.E.L.D. ran the Initiative?"

"A branch of S.H.I.E.L.D." Hill gestured at the prisoner whom Barton was just finishing trying to his chair. "Rogers might know more about the World War II work – he was assigned to the scientific branch."

"The SSR—?"

"Schmidt wasn't the only one looking at supernatural solutions. He was just the one who worked out how to make use of the genie." She ignored the blank incomprehension on the faces of the people around her, and patted the suitcase under her hands. "Is there somewhere I can lay this out?"

"Whoa, hang on a minute." Faith came around the couch and held up her hands before anyone could answer. "What the hell do you think this is? You walk in here, expecting us to jump to when you give the order – you guys broke the planet in the first place! What makes you think we're going to trust you now?"

The question hung in the air, pointed.

Wes noted that Faith had placed herself so she was facing Hill, with Wes and most of the Slayers and Scoobies behind her, leaving Barton and the other man on Hill's side of the room. If it hadn't been so serious a moment, he'd have smiled.

Hill _did _smile, and glanced around, clearly amused.

"You followed the vision of the Powers That Be," she said. "And you trusted Barton when you came for me. What was the point of attacking the Chitauri and making a target of yourselves if you weren't going to get something out of it?"

Faith glanced at Wes, as though suddenly realising what she'd done, where she stood in relation to everyone else in the room. Her eyes appealed for him to step in, but he shook his head. This wasn't his question to answer. He was the anchor for her and these children – the one who held the fort for their return – he wasn't the leader.

She was more than up to the task – she'd been doing it for the last six years, albeit unacknowledged. But she'd never been seriously challenged on it until now, one leader of people to another.

Faith turned back to Hill.

"You broke the world," she said flatly. "I've been a Slayer for thirteen years, and a killer nearly as long, and even I never managed to break the world. Barton said that S.H.I.E.L.D. was an organisation developed to stop this kind of thing – not help it along."

In another time and another place, maybe the other woman would have dropped her eyes and been abashed.

Maybe.

Maria Hill didn't look away from Faith. "That's true," she said. "S.H.I.E.L.D. was created to deal with this kind of thing. And we failed. We didn't expect Loki to use our procedures and protocols against us, and we didn't expect him to turn the weapons we sent after him into weapons against us. But if we failed, we're willing to at least attempt to fix the problem. And yes," she added. "I'll need you and your Slayers to do it."

"We don't work with the government."

"You don't work _for_ the government," came the cool reply as she typed a code in on the suitcase lock. "I'm not about to recruit you into S.H.I.E.L.D – you're the Slayers and it is, quote, _unwise to tangle with them or the Watchers' Council, recommended to leave to own devices unless spillover into human plane,_ unquote."

"Yeah, but the spillover wasn't from us to you, was it?" Faith retorted. "This Hellmouth doesn't open to another dimension; it opens to another _galaxy_ – the aliens can't be banished because they come from this plane in the first place!"

"True. This might help, though." Hill lifted something long and steely out of the suitcase. It was shaped like a cannon – the length of a man's arm, with a circular barrel that showed signs of age and wear. "We can't banish the Chitauri, but we _can_ close the Hellmouth."

Barton was shaking his head. "Weapons don't work against the shield around the Tesseract – either human or Chitauri weapons."

"This will," Hill said, flipping open a compartment on the side of the weapon, "Or, at least, its analogue from a parallel universe will."

A faint blue glow seemed to cling to the weapons' insides, visible even in the morning light.

o-O-o

"I don't like her," Faith said in the kitchen later. Breakfast was on the table – a mish-mash of toast and eggs and sausages: 'the post-Slaying breakfast' Faith called it.

Wesley folded his arms as he set the kettle to boil, then had to unfold them as Faith stepped in, up against him. He settled his arms around her waist and pressed his fingers against the muscles of her back, noting her tension. "She is rather...direct. She reminds me a little of Cordelia."

"At least Cordy was amusing."

Wes didn't point out that Cordelia had been younger, and more careless than the woman with the hard eyes. He wouldn't have been surprised to find military background in Maria Hill's past – or abuse. She had the look of someone who'd learned very early that she would have to claw and scrape for everything that came to her, and fight to keep it.

Rather like Faith, in that respect.

Of course, he was wise enough to keep his observations to himself, merely saying,"War makes for strange bedfellows."

"So what's your excuse?"

He slid his hands down to cover her butt when she rubbed against him. "Maybe I'm weak."

"Hm, yeah," she ran her hands over his shoulders, squeezing the muscles. "Weak. Definitely. Wait, were those my knees?"

She smirked as she went limp, and he caught her easily, hoisting her hard up against him – sensual friction. Wes kissed her, hard and welcoming, the greeting he hadn't yet given her after their successful return.

Faith wasn't behindhand in responding – leaning into his kiss, open and eager. "You know, the kids can look after themselves for a while."

"I'm sure they can; it's the guests I'm worried about."

Ruana had cast the usual spell to keep them hidden from prying eyes the instant Faith and the others had come home, but Wes was worried. At this moment, he had three of the most dangerous people in the world out in his sitting room – even if one of them was unconscious – along with what was probably the most dangerous weapon on the planet – not in firepower, since the cannon's actual power had run out a half-century ago, but in potential.

"Do you trust them?"

"Yes." When she looked at him in disbelief, he smiled. "They have their secrets and they're more than welcome to keep them; what they want is what we want – the Hellmouth closed."

"It's what else they'll want that worries me." Faith looked up at him. "It was easier when it was just me."

Fear threaded through Wes – unreasonable, but palpable all the same. He knew how much she needed him, even if she'd never said. She didn't have to speak the words to say it every time her eyes met his. Yet a part of him feared being considered unworthy of his Slayer – and not just as a Watcher, but as a man. Faith was still young, still fascinating in the way of Slayers – in the way of all women who chose to step into the darkness to fight. And he was growing old – he saw it in his mirror every morning.

But he answered her lightly, because his issues were his own and she had enough burdens to bear. "Would you go back to doing it alone?"

"You have to ask that?"

"Just making sure."

In the next room, the sounds shifted – a sleeper waking.

Steve Rogers – Captain America - was just lifting his head as Wes and Faith walked in. His expression was dazed, as he took in his surroundings.

"Captain?" Hill tilted her head, watching him with sharp blue eyes. "Are you back with us?"

"Lieutenant, what—?" Then he jerked as he realised he was restrained. Wesley watched recognition dawn in the man's face – like a man awakening from a bad dream only to discover reality was a nightmare of his own making. "How long?"

"Since the Avengers failed? Seventeen days."

"Seventeen—?" Rogers gasped, then suddenly winced as though something sharp had been driven through his brain.

Barton was already pouring water from the sideboard. "Here," he said, offering the cup and tilting it carefully so the man could drink. "Your mouth will feel like dust."

He drank the water, turning his face away when he'd had enough. "Is it—Is he—?"

"Gone?" Barton regarded him. "Does your brain feel like it doesn't fit you anymore, even though your thoughts feel like your own?"

"Yes. Like I was someone else— Did I—?" His eyes were skimming across Barton, across Wes and Faith and the others in the room, frowning slightly as though trying to place them. Then he paled, his expression turning still and haunted as he looked to Hill. "I did, didn't I?"

"All that and more," came the answer.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant."

"You'll have time to be sorry later." Hill sounded brisk. "You're needed for a mission, Captain – to save the world. If you're up to it, of course."

The mockery was plain enough. Wes winced and saw Barton's expression twitch. Rogers swallowed back whatever retort he'd been about to give and nodded once.

No reassurance. No absolution. Rogers needed neither – there was nothing they could say that could undo what had been done, nothing he could do that could make it right.

The fine scar across Wes' throat ached.

o-O-o

Rogers had asked to go outside, and Faith, Barton, Joey, and Ash had accompanied him up to the roof while Ruana put together the spell components, and Lena spoke with Buffy and the Cleveland gang.

Wes found Hill in the alleyway beside the building, near where the stairs came up

She was staring up at the strip of blue overhead, her face turned up, her eyes unseeing.

He'd debated whether his presence would be necessary. He was quite sure it wouldn't be welcome. But, all things considered, she wasn't that much older than Faith, and he was accustomed to dealing with prickly and difficult women who didn't do intimacy.

One could argue he had a thing for the type.

She didn't look away as he set his back beside hers, against the wall of the alleyway.

"I'd have thought you'd be in there overseeing the spell preparations."

Hill shrugged and didn't look down from the sky. "They don't need me for the prep, just for the spell."

"And you don't need to monitor them?"

Now she looked at him, and her mouth softened a little, wry humour touching her lips. "Is that how I come across?"

Wes tilted his head. "Isn't that how you are?"

"No more than you."

Wes didn't wonder that she saw the similarities between them. "Touché."

"I think I have it easier. At least I'm not sending children out to die."

"Although you will tomorrow."

"Yes." The blue eyes closed, long lashes pressing down against her cheeks. "But not alone. Barton and Rogers will look after them, and I'll do what I can from where I am."

Because she'd be there, putting her had in the noose – a gift and distraction for Loki, willing to risk being his entertainment in whatever form it took.

_He likes playing with his food,_ Barton had said earlier, grim and tired. _Circular arguments and emotional weak spots. Giving hope and then taking it away._

_Headgames,_ Rogers murmured, closing his eyes against a memory that no-one asked him to share. _Headgames and lies._

Hill had bared her teeth in a tight and dangerous smile, undaunted. _Then perhaps it's a good thing I have claws and no heart._

Watching her now, she didn't look like a woman with no heart – just a woman with a burden that seemed impossibly large for one so young.

_You were no older when the Council sent you to Sunnydale. _And look at what a hash he'd made of that.

Still, Maria Hill was not Wesley Wyndam-Pryce; he had a feeling her training had been considerably more thorough than his. She had that air of competence about her; what she chose to do she would get done, come hellmouth or high water.

Wes wondered if Maria Hill had once been a Potential. The instincts to protect remained, even after the ability to become a Slayer faded – such women often became warriors of mind or spirit or body, protectors of those who couldn't defend themselves, the women who did what needed to be done.

He found the thought reassuring.

She took a deep breath, inhaled and exhaled. And when she opened her eyes, she was almost the commander again.

Almost.

"You've lived a varied life since the Council sent you to manage the Slayers. How many friends have you seen fall along the way?"

Her question – so specific, so perceptive – caught him off-guard. Faces flitted through his mind – the innocent and the guilty, the friends who'd fought and survived – and the ones who hadn't.

Faith. His Slayer who'd walked into the darkness of the human soul and come back out – not for him but for herself. Who still walked into the darkness of the night and had come back every time, so far.

One day, one night, she wouldn't. That was the fate of the Slayer. And the fate of the Watcher was to wait and watch and – he was quite aware of the pun – keep the faith with the next Slayer to be called.

_How many friends have you seen fall? _The answer came easily, but not without pain. "Too many."

Blue eyes stared at him, seemingly seeing through to his soul. "Does it ever get easier?"

"No," Wes said. "It never does."

o-O-o

Faith had never seen herself as a relationship kind of girl. Until Robin Wood, she'd never stayed with a guy long enough to develop a relatonship. Robin had changed the game – had shown her how a relationship worked outside the bedroom; from conversations to companionship to going out each night and slaying and then coming back and working out the post-Slaying hornies in the sheets.

Robin had gone his way in the end, and Faith had gone hers, and somewhere between the collapse of Sunnydale and the destruction of Wolfram and Hart, she'd ended up in bed with Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.

At the time, she'd been thinking maybe Gunn would be willing to take a roll in the sheets – he had an edge to him that would need taking off.

Wesley had surprised her.

Sometimes he still did.

Today, it seemed, she'd missed all the signals that he was brewing for a good, hard fuck. So when he closed the door behind him, and caught her hand to yank her into his arms, Faith was unprepared.

"Wes—" Her protest was cut off by his mouth, by his hands sliding up under her shirt, by the urgency in his kisses as he stroked her tongue in a rhythm of demand. _Want, take, have..._

Faith slid her hands around his neck, grazing his throat to make him shiver, popping the buttons off the shirts he still liked wearing – because she could tear them off at a moment's notice, stripping him to the waist with one swift drag of a collar.

Warm skin with muscle beneath. Not a hard body, not built the way Barton or Rogers were – yes, she'd taken an unashamed eyefull of both men when the opportunity presented itself – but kept well for his age. Whipcord, not body-builder, and not without slight softness at belly and sides.

Hers to do with as she pleased.

Or to be done by as he pleased.

This afternoon, it seemed that Wes wanted the lead. He let her take out his cock, let her suck him erect, but pulled her up long before he was anywhere near close. Then he stripped her with heated touches and a fierce grip, his kisses deep and needy, before seating her on the edge of the bed and kneeling between her spread knees.

"Did you want to come before I fuck you?" The question, whiskey-rough on his lips, made her ache.

"Do you want me begging for you to hurry up," Faith replied, "or to slow down?"

Wes smiled – that too-brief curve of the mouth that hinted at dangerous things and made her blood race – and kissed her, deep and demanding, while his hands stroked feathery trails across her skin. No answer, but then she hadn't expected as much. And even if she'd answered him, she didn't know if he'd have accomodated her or not.

He bit and kissed and nipped and stroked his way down her body. Then he fucked her with his tongue, over and over and over, while Faith told him how much she liked it, then how he was driving her mad, then wept with the overload of pleasure as he parted her thighs and slid his thumbs into her, deep and delving,' to see if she was ready'.

When Wes rose to his feet and pulled her up, Faith was all ache.

He kissed her, his hand cupping her nape, the taste of her on his tongue. Then she was spun and bent over the bed, her ass high, her thighs spread wide. Fingers stroked her, parted her, she felt him line his cock up against her opening and thrust.

She liked this position; it was…intimate. And Wes liked it, too – it made her vulnerable to him in sex, an act of trust.

Faith panted as he fucked her, whimpering as she listened to his panting breaths. Goading him on as he caressed her, gripping, grappling, groping. Clawing at the sheets as her body clenched and she died of an overdose of pleasure, again and again and again while he drove all his love and fear and need into her flesh.

She was vaguely aware of hands coming down either side of her, his back fitting up against hers as he rested his forehead against her nape. Then, with an effort, Wes pulled them up into the bed, reaching over to grab some kleenex and wipe them both down with gentle fingers.

Sheets were drawn over them, and she just lay there and panted as his hand laced into hers.

When she turned over, he was still watching her, pensive, yet unapologetic. Her safety and surety – someone she'd learned to trust the hard way, just as she'd learned to be good the hard way.

Her finger traced his cheek and the stubble whose burn marks she bore all over her skin, now fading. "Feel better?"

"Yes." He leaned into her touch. "I'm sorry."

"Did you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

Good, because Faith didn't want to talk about it either. Although she wanted to be held for a while.

Wes let her roll him onto his back and curl up against him without words, just the trace of his fingers through her hair and down her back.

She'd argued to be on the team going into Loki's stronghold. Rogers had objected.

_You shouldn't be in on this,_ he'd said, his jaw set firm as he objected to her inclusion in the plan. _It's not your fight. The risks are too great._

Hill, marking out the plan in the light of her resources with S.H.I.E.L.D, had neither agreed nor disagreed, but looked to Faith, waiting for a response – _expecting_ a response from her.

_I go out every night to fight the forces of darkness, Captain,_ she'd said. _My life expectancy as a Slayer was once measured in months, not years. I know all about risk._

_And do you know about the price of failure?_ He'd asked, skeptically. _Have you ever betrayed what you were chosen to do?_

Of all the people in the room, Rogers had picked the wrong one to challenge on that point. More than one person had winced. _Yes,_ Faith had held his gaze, unremitting, _I have. And I didn't even have the excuse of being mind-controlled._

Hill had looked at her for a long moment, then modified the plan accordingly.

Things were falling into place, from their entry into Loki's stronghold, to how they might cause the most damage to the Chiaturi once the Hellmouth was closed. Maria Hill had called in her reinforcements from S.H.I.E.L.D, and Ash had contacted Cleveland and the other Slayer cells throughout the world about what was happening.

And Faith would walk into the lion's den with Barton and Hill and Rogers – the spear-point to retribution, as Lena had foretold.

Whether she would walk out again, on her own two feet, in her right mind? Nobody could say.

Lying in Wes' arms, Faith reflected that they didn't talk about tomorrows – a Slayer didn't get tomorrows. She got to fight the good fight and not go quietly into that good night. Or something about raging against the light.

Faith had never really cared much about tomorrows until Wes.

But this was her job – what she'd been made to do – fight the darkness with everything in her.

At least she wouldn't be doing it alone, or without guidance.

Faith thought of Lieutenant Hill bullying Barton and Rogers to break from the planning sessions: _You'll be no use if you don't get at least a little rest._

_I can survive on very little sleep,_ Rogers had said.

_I didn't say sleep,_ came the retort. _I said rest. And you may be a super-soldier, Rogers, but Barton isn't, and neither am I._

It wasn't Cordy that Lieutenant Hill echoed in Faith's memories, but Gwendolyn Post – the Watcher who'd taken Faith's trust and betrayed it. Was that why she felt such instinctive antagonism to Hill?

Yet Barton had taken the bossing in good humour, and Rogers had almost smiled, as though recalling another time and place, another person saying those things to him, and both had laid down – to rest, perchance to sleep. And Hill had gone over the plan again, her expression hard and unforgiving, her determination undaunted even when Faith sat down in the chair opposite her and asked, _Why are you doing this?_

_Because someone needs to, and all the other people I would have trusted with it are gone._ Blue eyes lifted from the tablet. _You were called to be a Slayer; you walked away from that for a while, but you can't deny what you are. Neither can I._

_And what are you?_

_Not a hero._ The austere face softened fractionally, the severe mouth lifting at the corners in what was nearly a smile.

_So you could let me be the sacrifice,_ Faith said, already knowing the answer.

Hill snorted. _You're more use to the world alive than dead. And I wouldn't survive very long against your Watcher if you didn't come back. You have people relying on you, Slayer._

_And you don't?_

_The people relying on me won't miss me if I die in the line of duty._

It took, Faith thought, a seriously fucked-up kind of mentality to do a job for which nobody would thank you, and no-one would regret or particularly care if you died while doing it. Even the least Slayer had always had a Watcher whose job it was to care for them – and if it was a job, well, it was still someone who cared.

On the other hand, who was she to talk with her past and her history?

Her fingers traced the scars on Wes' chest.

"Talk to me, Faith."

"We're pretty fucked up, aren't we?"

"By the textbook definition, I believe so." He lifted his head to look down at her. "But you've always known that."

Yeah, she had.

_Red in his ledger,_ the Powers That Be had said through Lena. _Red in yours._

_I can't wipe it out, can I?_ Rogers asked, out on the roof in the starlight, come up to apologise for bringing up the past. Faith could have told him it was old news, but she appreciated the consideration.

_No,_ Faith had answered as they looked out across the river at the city. _You can only atone for it._

_And if it takes the rest of your life?_

_Like I said,_ she said as Barton came out onto the rooftop to join them. _My life expectancy used to be measured in months. But I know someone who's been atoning for close to a hundred years. _

_Redemption takes as long as it takes,_ Barton murmured. _You won't be alone, Steve._

And that was the core of it, wasn't it? A hard road, but not one that had to be walked alone. Not by her, not for Barton and Rogers – not even for Lieutenant Hill.

"Faith?" Wesley was still watching her. "Should I ask?"

"Roads to redemption," Faith answered and rested her head on his heart.

"Ah," he said, and asked no more.

**fin**


End file.
